


Where's your picket fence, love?

by sporklift



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Break Up, Divorce, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, F/M, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Myra Kaspbrak POV, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-03 19:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21184505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: In which Eddie Kaspbrak moves out.





	Where's your picket fence, love?

**Author's Note:**

> Lyric Prompt: _"If you find a man that's worth a damn and treats you well, then he's a fool and you're just as well, I hope it gives you hell._
> 
> So. This started as a writing exercise. I was trying to adapt the scene where Eddie leaves for Derry into the movieverse, trying to hit all the major beats from the scene in the book. And then, somehow, I ended up on one of my playlists from high school. _Gives You Hell_ came on. And I was all. “Oh. Oh. I can EXPAND on this, can’t I?” And that’s how this came to be. 
> 
> Head's up: the word "queer" is used once in a not-very-nice way. 
> 
> And. Um. Yeah. It's Myra's POV. Should be a fun time.

Myra knew something was wrong that morning, when Eddie didn’t say, “I love you” on the phone. He usually did. There had to be a _ reason _he wouldn’t. 

And that wasn’t even touching how he’d called her “Mommy.” 

Needless to say: something was wrong. Very, very wrong. 

And then he went and got himself T-boned in the middle of Manhattan. And - what had she just been telling him? It’d been raining_. _ The roads were slick. He must have hydroplaned. He should have stayed at home, with her, where it was safe_. _

He didn’t even have the decency to call her after the crash. Just got a cab home and hobbled into the house, pale and looking like he was ready to faint. Myra dashed to the cupboard for his Antivan. “Eddie? What are you doing home so soon? Where’s the car?” 

“I crashed it.” Eddie shook his head, waved a hand in her direction, and lumbered into their bedroom. If he didn’t look so disoriented, she would have taken offense. 

“What? I knew it! I knew it, Eddie. The roads aren’t safe right now! Are you okay? You should’ve gone to the emergency room if you were hurt and...” Myra followed her husband through the door to find Eddie reaching under their bed. He pulled out a suitcase. Myra stopped in the doorway, orange pill bottle in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “What are you doing?” 

“I have to go. Tonight. It’s...important.” 

“To the hospital?” 

“No. It’s nothing. I just need to _ go.” _

Myra sat the Antivan and water on the armoire, over the lace doily so it wouldn’t warp the oak. “That doesn’t sound like nothing! Where are you going? You need to tell me.” 

Eddie was pacing around the room, placing his jeans (the jeans she’d so devotedly folded) into the suitcase. He scrambled through the dingiest of his t-shirts, the ones he kept just in case they ever decided to paint the house, and a few of his hoodies, and threw a polo or two in. 

It was like he was packing for weeks. 

Myra could feel the air catch in her lungs. It was so unlike him, so odd, to ignore her. She felt like her skin was on fire. “Eddie! Where do you think you’re going? Did something happen?”

Eddie bent down in the closet. Sneakers in hand. He was examining his sneakers, as though for wear. All he said, though, was another inexcusable murmur. Another, “‘s nothing.” 

An uncertain franticness took hold of Myra. She stepped forward, rubbing on her knuckles. “Eddie - sweetheart - I think you’re concussed. You can’t go anywhere like this. And, besides, they revived _ Cats _on Broadway and you promised to take me!” 

Ridiculous? Maybe. But, it was the first tether to swim up her brain. 

“Go see _ Cats _yourself. You have a debit card.” 

Myra couldn’t help it. The tears broke like a dam. She felt them rounding her chin and falling onto her chest. 

“Well, that’s just cruel,” She sobbed. “You won’t even tell me what it is and you won’t even do what you promised! Why can’t you just _ talk _to me?!” 

Eddie had the audacity to check his watch. And, folding his sneakers into his suitcase, he pulled his toiletry bag out from under the bed as well. He didn’t even pause. He didn’t look at her. Maybe he was afraid her tears would remind him she was an actual person with feelings_. _ “Myra... look. I’m going back to Maine. I have to go back. That’s all there is to it. Happy?” 

That didn’t make any sense. True, Eddie had grown up in Maine. But he never got all sentimental about it. They never even visited. What was in Maine that was so important? “You have to? Please just tell me what this is about.” 

“_No.” _

Myra found her jaw, suddenly, on the floor. Eddie stuffed his hypoallergenic pillow inside the second suitcase, having already filled the first one, folded over top his orthotics. Myra spluttered. “Ex---excuse me?” 

“I can’t explain. I just need to go. Just trust me, okay?” 

“W_hy? _ Why do you have to _ leave?” _

“They need me. My friends.” 

“What friends? You’ve never mentioned anyone at all!” 

“I didn’t grow up in a literal bubble, Myra.” Eddie groaned - quite rudely, and certainly entirely from that concussion of his. But moved past her, toiletry bag in hand, into the bathroom. He set off, throwing his orange prescriptions and white over-the-counter bottles into his bag. He moved on to his toothbrush, hairbrush, deodorant. All so methodical. Like he’d thought about packing it all up before. 

“You’re not well.” Myra insisted, throat dry. “Let me give you an aspirin and you can lie down. You can’t sleep because of that concussion but we’ll put on the TV and--”

But Eddie wasn’t listening. He sailed right out of the master bath and looped the toiletry bag along the neck of one of his suitcases. The bags were designed to sling together; they’d come in a set. 

And - just like that - he was heading out of their bedroom. The place that was supposed to mean love and togetherness, and Myra had done up all prettily with florals and inviting homey colors, and he was clipping out of it like he never even noticed. 

Myra followed on his heels. “Eddie, you can’t go! Don’t leave! You just got into a car crash, you could be in shock! You’re making yourself sick. Let’s get you looked at and then we can talk about--” 

He was at the door by the time he spun around. “Jesus! Can't you be _quiet?!_” 

The tears fell freely. Myra couldn’t see straight. She choked out sobs. “I hate it when you yell at me.” 

“No. I--I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Eddie sighed. Not exasperated like before, but loving - or maybe pitying, it was so hard to tell sometimes - and he stopped with his suitcases at the door. He stooped forward to kiss her forehead, but he didn’t put his hands on her. “I just have to go.” 

“And you won’t tell me why?” 

“I made a promise.” 

“You make lots of promises to me! Why is this one so important?” 

Eddie breaks away. Steps away. Further and further from her. “I don’t remember. But it is.” 

Myra sobbed, just once. Loudly. “Well, then, let me come with you. I can help, I can--” 

“You can’t. Myra, I have to go. There’s no more time. I’ll be home before you know it.” And he turned to leave, hands gripping white on the handles of his suitcase. 

“No, you won’t.” It came before Myra could stop it. 

Eddie turned. His face was white, and - honestly - _good._ “What do you mean?” 

Myra’s vision blurred. Her eyes burnt. “If you leave like this, I’ll change the locks. I swear I will.” 

Eddie slammed the door behind him. 

* * *

For a week, Myra was inconsolable. Some of the ladies from the whist circle came around, and even brought classy white wine and plates of brownies for her. It was the sort of thing she hadn’t experienced in high school or college, back when this sort of weepy thing would be acceptable. 

“And he just left without a word?” Sarah Jones, a twiggy canary of a woman who invested too much in lipstick, asked her, aghast. “And he isn’t even picking up his phone! Pathetic.” 

And Willa Calvet tried to soothe her. “Oh, darling, sometimes people just aren’t who we think they are. It’s just always such a shame when it happens _ after _the wedding bells.” 

Sarah poured Myra a glass of wine then and asked, “Will you divorce him?” 

Divorce. It was such an ugly word. Myra always swore she’d never get divorced. She was always holding out for the man who’d be with her forever. That’s what she told herself, when all the girls from college and high school started getting hitched and Myra was waiting on her first kiss. She always knew she’d be a one-and-done kind of girl. 

And, no, Eddie was never a Prince Charming exactly, but he was her husband. They promised it’d always be that way. It’d never mattered that they weren’t particularly exciting, that Eddie was too delicate to really show if he meant it when they made love. They understood each other and - moreover - they picked each other. Forty-year-old, respectable women didn’t just get divorced. She hadn’t menstruated in months - she couldn’t have kids. She couldn’t start over. She was too big to find someone new. And it wasn’t just her: Eddie couldn’t start over either - he was too sick. They needed each other. Even now. Even after Eddie just left her, he’d come back. He had to. They weren’t going to end. It was a mistake. An ugly, ugly mistake. 

Myra sobbed into her hands. 

* * *

And then, almost a month after Eddie left, he called. Myra half considered not picking up. Giving him a taste of his own medicine. But, in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to be so vindictive. 

“Eddie,” she said by way of greeting. Cold, so she could let him know that she’s been fine while he was off galavanting, doing who-knew-what. Just fine. Because that much, at least, she could do. 

“Myra.” He said. He sounded weak. In spite of everything, it tugged on Myra’s heartstrings. “Um. How are you?” 

It caught her by surprise. “If you wanted to know that, you would’ve asked me a month ago.” 

From the other end, Eddie swallowed. There was a pause. A light cough. And then, “I think I need to come by and get the rest of my things.” 

She didn’t know it, but it was exactly what she’d been dreading at the phone’s first ring. “What?” she asked, even though she heard him the first time. 

“And I think you should probably talk to a lawyer.” 

“Eddie, I know I was a little terse thelast time we spoke...I know we both said things we aren’t proud of! Just come home, sweetheart, and we can talk about this--I can forgive you for whatever it was. And we could--” 

“I am _ not _doing this right now.” He was even-toned, but it felt, to Myra, like he was screaming at her. “Just. Let me know when I can come by to get my stuff.” 

* * *

The first thing Myra noticed was that there was a second body in the U-Haul. And then, she had to wonder why Eddie rented a U-Haul. They could afford movers. When they moved from Queens to Long Island, they’d hired people to move them. 

But. Well. That’d been Them. Maybe Eddie was steeling himself for any surprises in the impending...

Ending. (Not the D-word. She wouldn’t use it. Not till there was no hope left.) 

The third thing she noticed made her clap a hand over her face, gasp back a scream. Eddie had this garish angry scar marred across his face. Red and puckering. For a second, Myra forgot she was supposed to be angry with him. “What _happened,_ Eddie?” 

“It’s a long story,” Eddie said. But he didn’t volunteer any more information. What happened while he was away? “It’s healing though.” 

“Oh, but your face, sweet--” 

It suddenly occurred to her it might be inappropriate to finish the sentence. 

“It’s all fine,” Eddie said, and in the next moment, the back hatch of the U-Haul rolled up. The second passenger skipped up the drive, big flat foldable boxes tucked under both his arms. He was tall and gangly and oddly familiar looking. As he reached the porch, his shadow darkened the ceramic bunny giggling below the mailbox. 

Eddie coughed. “Um. Myra, this’s Richie. Richie, Myra.” 

Richie? With the name, it clicked. 

As in, Richie Tozier? As in _ Trashmouth? _From Netflix? 

“The comedian?” Myra asked before she could stop. 

And the tall man’s Richie, jaw dropped like he was trying to catch flies in his mouth. “You...you know my stand-up?” 

“Only that you’re incredibly vulgar.” _ And that Eddie doesn’t like you. He told me he doesn’t like you. _ She shook her head and turned to her husband (not ex_, _not yet). “Eddie, I need to talk to you.” 

“Oh, I--I guess.” Eddie began, deer-in-headlights eyes wide and that certainly didn’t seem like a good sign. “Richie? You good?” 

“Yeah. I’ll keep my hands out of my pants and start putting boxes together.” 

Oh, yes. It’s the same man. So perfectly crass.

Myra didn’t know why the idea of this man joining her and Eddie through the threshold of their house put her in such a bad mood, but it did. He’d leave the flowers wilting. They left him, with his array of cardboard flats. Together, they dipped into their bedroom. Myra had the bed made, neat, like always. Eddie’s side had been cold for a long time. 

Before she as much as shut the door, Eddie said, “We’re not supposed to negotiate the divorce without our lawyers--” 

“This isn’t about that. Don’t insult me! Why are you so _ mean _?” Her hands secured to her hips, winging the points of her elbows. It wasn’t about money. It was never about money. 

“Myra, it’s--” 

She didn’t let him finish. “Why is he here? When did you even _ meet _him?” 

“Um. Which question do you want me to answer?” 

“Don’t be cruel.” 

“Fine. He’s helping me move. And, I dunno. We grew up together. So...1985 maybe?” 

Myra’s face fell. 1985? “You never told me you knew him. I thought he was just some comic you didn’t like.” 

Didn’t like, but watched anyway. 

“It’s complicated. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

“Do you think I’m stupid or something? Why didn’t you tell me you know him? Why would you hide that from me?” 

Eddie chewed on his lip. It’d make them chapped, but the second Myra opened her mouth to point it out, she thought better. “I promise I wasn’t meaning to hide anything from you.” 

And the tears were welling up again. She turned away. “I don’t believe you.” 

* * *

Eddie agreed to leave a lot behind. The china plates they got for their wedding. The kitchen appliances. Anything that wasn’t his in the bedroom or his office would stay. He took his prescriptions the first time. 

She and Eddie had left their room, and Richie had assembled the boxes, was childishly sitting in one of them, and shot up out of it. Like one of those scarves a magician pulled out of his sleeves, he just kept going. It was too much. 

“Where and how do you want me, Eds?” He asked. 

They set about, talking in hushed voices and wandering from the office in the back, to the bathroom. They were loud, constantly buzzing, running boxes from deep in the house out to the car. Although Myra couldn’t piece together what they were yammering on about over the drone of the TV. She wasn’t watching. But she didn’t want to eavesdrop either. 

She just wanted an answer: how did her life get so mixed up? 

Myra headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She needed some chamomile. If she could just get a moment alone with Eddie…

Maybe they could unpack a few boxes instead. Maybe things could go back to normal… 

“What next?” Richie’s voice called from down the hallway. 

“I’ve got some clothes yet.” 

“Shit, dude, you have _ more?_”

“Just make yourself useful.” 

The hinge of the bedroom door squeaked behind them. A fly buzzed in the window above the sink.

Myra reached for the honey jar on the upper shelf, grabbed the almond milk out of the refrigerator, and set the fixings for her tea neatly on the countertop. There was murmuring in the other room. 

And it suddenly occurred to Myra that Eddie’s allergies usually acted up at the end of summer. Maybe he’d like some chamomile too… 

Maybe she’d get the chance to speak with him alone.

The door was cracked. Myra saw Eddie standing in front of his dresser, laying out his watches in a handkerchief, rolling them in bubble wrap. Below, Richie sat pretzel-legged, floppily folding wrinkles into Eddie’s polo shirts. He guffawed with a braying sort of glee and said, “Do you own anything other than fucking polo shirts?” 

“At least my clothes all match, dumbass.” 

Steeling herself to knock on the door, Myra stopped with her fist in the air. Their voices dropped. 

Richie’s annoying nasal whisper hit Myra’s ears. “Is she still here?” 

Eddie nodded. 

And then Richie whispered, “_ Why? _ What is she doing_? _Making sure we’re not stealing your anniversary silverware?” 

Myra’s cheeks burnt hot. It was her house. She had a right to be there! Eddie would defend her, wouldn’t he? Just because he got some idea of divorce in his head, didn’t mean that he’d let someone be so mean. 

But Eddie said, “I don’t fucking know. Why don’t you ask her?” 

And, quietly, they chuckled amongst themselves. So much like that stand-up of Richie’s that Eddie used to watch, Myra couldn’t get - for the life of her - why it was so funny. 

“I would,” Richie said. “But she has that same death-glare your mom had. Makes me wanna piss my pants.” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

That...wasn’t nothing. 

Eddie finished rolling two sets of handkerchief-wrapped watches in bubble wrap. He leaned down and placed them, carefully, along the sides. Myra could imagine how they fit, among the half-folded wads of shirts.

She certainly wasn’t imagining, however, how Richie’s hand slid up Eddie’s forearm, overly intimate, up to his shoulder. The way he turned up and looked at him, grinning a soft, “Hey.” 

And Eddie…

Eddie was smiling. He said “Hey” back. 

Then, her husband kissed that man. And it was intense and open-mouthed, and Eddie grabbed onto the back of Richie's head and kept him there. She saw that man's tongue flick out onto Eddie's lower lip. Smutty. Offensive. _Sharp, _somehow. 

And, yet, the most shocking thing amounted to this: no matter how much it hurt - stabbed and contorted the chambers of her heart - the word 'Surprise!' never once entered her brain. 

The kettle whistled. Myra repelled backward, frantically racing to the kitchen. Her teacup clattered in its saucer. Her vision blurred. She almost spilled the boiling water over her hand.

"_Damn,"_ she whispered as she dabbed at the pinking burn on her hand. She did what she could to choke back pained tears, and poured the water into her cup. The amber-brown spilled from the bag, staining the rest of the water around it. 

* * *

She sat on the couch, saucer, and cup on her knees, when the murmurs from the bedroom stopped. The hinges creaked, and there was Eddie - walking through. 

And that was it. Myra burst into tears. 

For a quarter of a moment, things were like they used to be. Eddie sailed across the room, seated at the couch beside her. Concern etched into his face. “Marty, what’s wrong?” 

At the nickname, she sobbed again. 

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. She shook her head. Blew her nose and had to hold onto the Kleenex because the nearest trash can was across the room. 

Once she was able to regulate her breathing, she could ask - voice broken. “Is he why you’re leaving me?” 

“What?” Eddie winced. Myra doesn’t know if he noticed he’d done it, but she did. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her, but his lips looked swollen, wetter than they normally did. 

How dare he? In _their room_. _Their space_. And in came Eddie and his lanky slob of a friend to destroy it. As though nothing at all was sacred. 

What did it say about her that the only man she’d gotten to look at her twice had just been kissing another man in their bedroom? 

She pressed: “Is that it, Eddie? Do you think you're some kind of queer or something?" 

"What the hell are you _talking _about?" 

"Don't yell at me!" 

She sobbed again. Fresh tears, that time. It seemed contradictory. Everything that, earlier, had made her wait to scream and hold him inside a cupboard and keep him forever, wouldn’t move. Instead, she slumped. Her forehead hit the bone on Eddie’s shoulder. He patted at her hair, intervals lasting a fraction of a second too long. 

When she could catch her breath, the words came spilling out. “Why are you doing this to me?” 

The shoulder was gone. Myra fell forward but caught her balance. Eddie sat, pin-straight, looking at her, hard. “To you?” 

“_Yes. _You married me. You must have had some idea you were like this--” 

“We’re getting divorced! It’s not your problem--” 

“Do I need to get tested?” She’d meant to let him finish. Give him a fair shake. But she couldn’t help it. The question was too important to let it fall by the wayside. 

“_Jesus. _No. Myra. Of course not.” 

The bedroom door creaked again. “Everything okay out here?” Richie Tozier asked, peeking through. 

Myra glared. She couldn’t stand the sight of him, not that minute. Not that he was much to look at on a regular day. She couldn’t fathom what the hell Eddie saw in him, not for the life of her. 

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. Just give us a minute, Rich.” 

“Okay. I’m gonna load some boxes into the car.” He retreated, and the living room fell into silence. He emerged, looking ridiculous with a box under each arm. Like a performing monkey or something. All he was missing was the fez. On his way out, he lightly knocked the back of Eddie’s head with his elbow. Myra and him exchanged a glance, and Myra wouldn’t look away before him - oh no, she definitely would not. 

Once the front door latched behind Richie, Myra gestured over to the newly empty space. She felt her lower lip quiver, her chin shake. “Is he your...your _ boyfriend _or something?” 

Eddie winced, again. Not the thing Myra wanted to see. He said, “Kind of.” 

New tears sprung up. She did nothing to stop them. 

“You called me a week ago!” Myra was blubbering. She knew she was. It didn’t matter. What good was dignity if he was going to leave her anyway? “One week! How long has this been going on?” 

“Not that long.” 

“And you don’t even like his stand-up, right? And you don’t know who he is, just some comedian who showed up on your Netflix queue. Who you’ve known since 1985.” 

“It isn’t like that.” 

And Myra shook her head. She stood. It made her so much taller than Eddie. It felt like catharsis, to tower like that. “You're a liar, Eddie. I’ve done nothing but take care of you no matter how sick you get and all I’ve done is love you and try to make you happy. And you just lie and run off to Maine throw everything away!” 

“I didn’t go to Maine to shack up with Richie, if that’s what you’re saying!” 

“Then what were you doing, Eddie?” 

Eddie stopped. Bit his tongue. 

Myra blew her nose again. “You’re never going to be happy until you admit what’s wrong with you. And it isn’t me. It has nothing to do with me. You’re a manipulative person.” 

“_I’m _manipulative?” 

“Yes.” She paced, threw her tissue into the trash and slammed the pump of Purell on the mantle down. She rubbed her palms together - hard - to distract from the way her heart ached. “You boss me around. And you made me think you needed me and on a dime - on a new, shiny dime - you tell me that you don’t. And not only don’t you need me, but you’re done with me. Suddenly you’re into men_? _ Since when? What did I do to deserve this? And then you boss me around again and make me wait while you two make moon eyes at each other in our room - in our _ room, _Eddie!” 

“I’m not _ making _you do anything!” Eddie stood, then, leaping to his feet. “And we weren’t doing anything!” 

“You’re lying again! I saw you. The door didn’t latch.” 

Eddie turned red in the face. “What were you doing spying through the door?” 

“Don’t turn this around on me! I didn’t do anything wrong! You’re a liar, you’re manipulative, and you don’t _ appreciate it _ when people love you.” In that moment, the door opened. An awkward Richie Tozier lurked in the doorway, all shadow. She jabbed a finger towards him, heated and way too upset to stop. If she did, she’d break down again. “And I hope _ he _knows that, someday.” 

“What the fu--” 

“Richie, shut up.” Eddie snapped.

And, Myra thought, he’d just proved her point for her.

Eddie merely gnawed on the inside of his cheek, and turned back to her. His eyes were stone cold. “I have another box in the office. Do you wanna mail it to me or should I grab it real quick?” 

“Just get your things and go, Eddie. _ Now _ .” Her voice broke. How did it get like this? So messy? So... _ over. _

She choked. There was no way in hell chamomile tea could make this one better, no matter how much milk and honey she added. 


End file.
